City of Claws and Sparks
by CNoel
Summary: Alec Lightwood is pulled from his familiar world of runes and unnecessary glitter by a bitter woman with a grudge, and he is engulfed in a world of bloodred sparks and sets of gleaming claws in the fight to get his life back. Formerly There is Only One.
1. Prologue

A/N: Hey guys! Still not dead! Yay! So if you remember There is Only One from about a zillion years ago, this is the first of the seven-book rewrite! It's far better, I think. And since I'm writing this out on my iPhone on the actual website and it's giving me a bit of trouble, it won't be too long, but the others I'll just do on notes and you will die from how long/strange they are.

Anyway.

Please don't kill me, as I just returned from the grave or whatever makes you less angry and JESUS CHRIST IT KEEPS AUTO CORRECTING MY WORDS TOGETHER AND MAKING THEM WEIRD BUT I GUESS IT'S JUST KARMA UNLESS ONE OF YOU CURSED ME.

OMG YOU CURSED ME WHO WAS IT?

Ahem.

Anyway. I'm just warning you, my OCs will all be major characters. Basically, most of it will be Alec and the OCs - not that I won't have the others, like Magnus and Izzy and Jace or whoever! I'm just not the best at characterization, and it's easier with my own mind-babies rather than someone else's copyrighted mind-babies. So, if that's really not your thing, I would recommend another story, though I ask that you at least give this one a chance, please!

Or I'll eat you and your family.

I'm very very sorry this took about eighty years. Seriously, I feel pretty horrible about it. But never fear! I am now writing my stories on my iPhone's notes, so I don't have to wait to get on my computer (which I haven't been able to do). So yay!

Anyway, please enjoy and review and pass it on or whatever you people do these days!

Rated T for language and violence. I'll try to stay (merged together as today… wtf) away from M, but there is a future character who does have a tendency to curse. Most of them do, actually. I probably won't end up raising it, but it could happen.

JESUS THEY KEEP CHANGING MY WORDS AND PUTTING THEM TOGETHER IT'S AWFUL.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own. If I did, this would be in the books and not on the Internet and my mind babies would also be copyrighted and you'd be writing stories about them.

{Prologue}

She strode gracefully into the room, clicking heels that echo in the hall eliminating any chance of a surprise, to find him sitting slumped against the wall as he always was, tracing circles into the stone ground with his finger, the other hand in his lap, two fingers tapping idly on his legs. She recognized the rhythm, one that speeds and slows, begins simple and morphs into a complex melody, one that was surely intended for an instrument. All the other times she had come into his room, every time she saw him, even from the very beginning, he had always been tapping away with those two fingers, but it wasn't any song or melody she knew. It bothered her.

"What are you doing?" she asked him, even though she could already see, and his head slowly lifted up, their eyes meeting for a second before he blinked and looked away, the circle-tracing finger faltering in its steady movement for a moment before resuming, slightly more forced and deliberate than before. His right hand slowly curled into a loose fist, all fingers except the two. The beat remained steady.

"No, never mind," she said as if he was about to go off on a long, dreary tangent, even though she knew he was not going to speak to her today. "I have to tell you something."

He nodded, a small movement she only perceived thanks to the slight ripple of his hair. She glanced down at his pale hand, pressed to the floor, finger tracing away. And the other, still tapping. She leaned against the doorframe, studying the slow, steady movement of his finger. She wondered if there was actually an imprint of a circle there - he always seemed to be in that same spot, and he was quite strong, even if he was simply lightly tracing the ground with a single finger. She wouldn't be surprised. She brushed a wayward strand of soft hair from her face and tucked a lock of it behind her ear, fingers brushing lightly against her face, hair tickling at her cheek.

"You're going to be getting a neighbor," she said to him, resting a hand on her hip. His head, this time, shot up instantly in a quick, snapping motion, his finger jerking in shock, nail dragging along the stone and leaving a faint, light mark. His hand was in a tight fist now, both of them, abruptly stopping the rhythm he was tapping against his leg. Her eyes went to his face. Calm, indifferent, but he almost always looked like that, his face always as smooth and white as untouched snow, glittering dully with sweat as the snow would under a full moon. She knew not to trust his face. It was all in his eyes, light, flat, and dead eyes. But the emotion was there when he was feeling it, floating up through the murky water of his eyes, breaking the surface without a ripple and simply taking over. For a split second, darkness flashed in his eyes, but it shrunk away almost as instantly as it had appeared.

"What?" he asked her, the fading embers of his native accent struggling for breath, seeming to be fighting to be heard past the American one that was growing in his voice. It was a shame, she thought, as his accent was quite a nice one, but the kind of limbo he had now was one of the greatest things she's heard for a while.

She smiled cooly at him, but it did not reach her eyes. "A neighbor. You know what it means."

He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, and his eyes darted to her feet. He blinked twice before finally raising his gaze back to her. Flickering unease was swimming in his eyes.

"Who?" he asked, and she smirked.

"You're not talkative today, are you?" she asked, even though she already knew that no, he was most certainly not, and he scowled at her, the dark flash returning, remaining dominant in his eyes for just a moment longer than it had before.

"Come on, Sherlock," he said and she chuckled. Her name sounded quite nice in that mixed accent of his. Everything did, really.

"You remember the Lightwoods?" she asked, the name dripping with scorn and hate, deciding that he might lose his mind if she kept him waiting for too long, and his eyes narrowed slightly in thought.

"Which ones?" he asked. "I've known quite a few. So have you." She could tell by his voice that he already knew exactly which Lightwoods she was talking about.

She leaned forward slightly, hand dropping from her hip, finger pointing at her chest, strands of dark hair grazing at her hand. "My Lightwoods."

After a moment, he nodded with a knowing and serious blink, and she fell back against the doorframe, her hand dropping down to her side.

"So are the two of them-" he began to ask, but she held up her hand to stop him. He waited, as she idly ran it through her silky waves of hair.

"No. Not them. Have I told you about their children?"

His eyes went wide, glittering in the dim Witchlight. Horror was glowing and dominant in his eyes. "Children? Those Lightwoods, your Lightwoods, they have children?" his voice, normally rock-hard and steady, had the faintest hint of a tremble. She could see why he was appalled. She hated those Lightwoods. She nodded once, lock of hair falling into her face.

"Yes. Their youngest is dead, but that was Jonathan's doing. Besides," she said with a heavy coating of scorn in her voice, brushing the wayward lock aside. "I asked him to kill all three. He failed miserably."

"He what? You what?"

She looked at him, and flicked her eyes away. His face had changed very, very slightly, hardly at all, but enough to cooperate with his eyes to better illustrate his horror. "He killed their youngest. Nine-year-old boy. I-"

"Can't you leave it at that?" he yelled out, cutting her off, jumping to his feet, hands curled into shaking fists at his sides, light eyes dark, so dark in his anger, his face drastically different, lines in it deep. He was really angry, furious - his native accent was almost dominant, and his voice was trembling, both in fury and sadness, she could tell. "They've lost one child! A nine-year-old boy! It was your doing, you asked Jonathan to kill them! Why can't you leave it at that?"

"You know why," she spat, pointing at him, her voice completely venomous. "Now sit down, before I make you."

Trembling in anger, the darkness in his eyes faltered slightly as her threat sunk in. She had made worse, and she ha carried out worse. The emotion on his face slowly sunk away, returning to the stony, indifferent, and blank expression he had always kept on his face, almost like a shield. The blackness in his eyes slowly fading, he took a step back and practically threw himself against the wall with a thud, crossing his arms harshly over his chest. "Better?" he asked dryly, and she waved a dismissive hand.

"Fine."

He bowed his head slightly so his light hair hung down over his eyes. "So who?" he asked, and she could hear in his voice that he was trying not to scream and lose control.

"The oldest son. Black hair, blue eyes," she stared at him, boring her eyes into his skull. She saw him swallow again, and tip his head slightly up, peeking at her through the hair that hung down at just a length to shield his eyes. He blinked.

"Why him?" he asked, and she could tell he was genuinely curious, his voice a bit calmer, evident by the return of his half-American accent, but he was still fuming, furious. She smiled, proud of all her work, all her spying, and she could just feel her pretty eyes sparkle.

"He's the one connected to everyone," she said, almost dreamily. He looked at her, full-on now, the question in his eyes. She knew he was not going to talk. She could see that he would explode again if he spoke. She brushed a tickling strand of dark hair from her neck in a quick, flicking motion. "As I've said, he is the oldest son of the Lightwoods. He is the brother to Blondie and Slutty McWhore, the ones who killed Jonathan." She let out a small chuckle regarding the nicknames before continuing. "And Sparkles. He's his boyfriend."

He let our a curt sound that could almost be a laugh or a scoff. Then he was silent. She stared at him, waiting for him to speak, because he knew she had nothing else to say. He needed a haircut, she thought to herself, staring at the long strands. His hair was still short enough for a man, but it was getting very long, covering his eyes so they peeked out like glittering pools of water through tall grass. His light strands were tickling down at his jawbone and neck, covering the back of it and his ears. She wondered if he wanted any new clothes, as well. All he had were the plain ones she had Rowan poof up for him, white, short-sleeves shirt, blue jeans, white sneakers.

"Why are you telling me all this?" he finally asked, brushing a strand of hair from his light, handsome eyes, literally the only path to his mind, his feelings, flaws in the rock-hard, protective mask of his face and body. She considered the question for a moment, and then shrugged, fully meaning the gesture, looking down at her hands. She put them together, and slowly traced the swooping, graceful lines of the open eye rune with her thumb.

"I guess I figured you deserved to know. That you wanted to."

He nodded. "So what are you going to do with him?" he asked, accent wavering slightly, hands balled up into fists. She smiled, looking up at him, dropping her hands, and his eyes slowly trailed away, the color flickering.

"Exactly what I did to you," she said. He shuddered, not visibly, but with his eyes. Slowly, he blinked, and raised his eyes to her face, holding his head up high, gaps for his eyes in his lanky hair. He blinked again, faster.

"And will you kill him?" he asked her, and his voice was cold. She shrugged.

"I didn't kill you," she said, but knew that the argument was useless, even before she said it.

"You had a reason. The only reason I'm still here is because you can't kill me," he said to her, and he threw his arms to his sides, pressing his palms onto the wall, and pushed himself off it, walking towards her. "What reason will you find for not killing him? Will you make one, or not even bother with it?"

She blinked, the haughtiness falling slowly from her face, she could feel it. Frustrated, she plastered scornful vanity on there instead. She suspected she looked a bit strange, but she assured herself that it did not pull away from her beauty. He sighed, but not from annoyance. She was taken aback.

"You don't have to act all… all haughty around me. I'm your friend, remember?"

She blinked. Then she laughed. He was right. Despite all the malice, the discomfort, they were friends. Old, old friends. "It wouldn't kill you to act like it, Mr. I-can't-make-eye-contact-or-not-act-awkward-in-a-conversation."

He chuckled, but the sound was forced, the slight smile that did not change anything else on his face looking hard and strained. "Like it wouldn't kill you to just call me James."

She smirked, and her expression was seamless. "Yes, it seriously would. And you don't want me dead, for obvious reasons. Besides, you'd be stuck with Rowan, then, and she's a real pain in the ass. In my opinion, at least."

He smiled at the joke and let out a breath of air through his nose as a meager laugh, but she saw something flash in his eyes - not the angry darkness, but the reminder.

"But seriously, Mr. Icmeconaaiac-"

"What the hell?" he asked, the slight discomfort falling away, replaced by a bewildered confusion.

She smiled. "That whole Mr. Blahblah thing was a mouthful. That's the first letter of each word."

He blinked. "Did you… just think that up now? Or did you plan it before?"

"A magician never reveals her secrets, J."

He rolled his eyes, and his shoulders finally relaxed. He wasn't one to relax easily, but he wasn't the nervous type, either. It was just a watchful guarding of himself, his emotions.

"Besides," she went on, deciding that she would be here all night if they continued to joke, or that he just might explode from discomfort. "I might grow attached. I did with you."

His shoulders slowly tensed. "But the order was different. Everything was different."

She looked away, running her fingers through her hair. "Maybe."

He breathed in loudly through his nose. He let it out as a slow, thoughtful sigh. "I won't be able to talk you out of this, will I?"

"No," she said instantly, but something tugged at her mind. "Sorry," she said, and she meant it. That got his attention.

"You never say sorry. The only time you ever said that was-"

"I know," she said, and she waved a hand to stop him. "I know. Just… let me do this, alright?"

He sighed. "It's not like I can stop you. No matter how hard I tried, you would never change your mind."

"You're right," she said to him, unsure as to why she asked his blessing, and already she was beginning to back out of the room. Through his hair, she saw his eyebrows raise.

"Leaving so soon, Sherry?" he asked her, using that silly name he knew she hated. She pursed her lips and he smirked, a real smirk. "What? You called me J."

"Yes, but-"

"Alright," he interrupted with a roll of his eyes, already knowing where the conversation was going, the humor on his face falling away, the lightness in his voice hardening, straining. "Fine. But really, where are you going? Or do I not want to know?"

She briefly considered the question. "I think you already do. But if you don't, then I think you would prefer to keep it that way."

He blinked and cocked his head slightly, tapping at his leg with his fingers in that same, familiar rhythm. He knew. He already knew everything. His eyes were heavy and dark. "Tell me anyway."

She flipped her hair. "I'm going to New York. I'm going to pick up your new friend."

He shook his head. "Not my new friend. I can't be his friend if you're going to kill him."

"I might not, remember? And just because Emma-"

"It wasn't just Emma," he reminded her, flinching like she had slapped him, voice strained, the accent changing again. "It… I just can't be, okay? I can't even talk to him."

She sighed. "Fine. I'm going to pick up your new neighbor." She put an extra, scornful emphasis on the last word. He clenched his jaw. Deciding he was no longer pleased with her presence and not going to speak while the two of them stood there just staring awkwardly, she turned around and took one step, one foot out the door.

"What's his name?" he suddenly asked, but she did not turn around because something in his voice told her not to.

"What?"

"You never said what his name was. You didn't say any names, in fact, just silly fake ones, but I think you know them all. So I want to know what his name is."

She ran his sentence in her head a few times, the way his voice sounded, and his light, sorrowful eyes appears in her mind. "I thought you didn't want to talk to him."

"I can't. It doesn't mean I don't want to. You of all people should know the difference between the two, Sherlock. So?"

She shuddered invisibly at the statement, at the cold way he had said her name, the accent making it sound even more bitter now. He was wrong, she told herself sternly. She had always been an excellent liar. "Alexander Lightwood," she said, and realized that there had been a long, tense pause in between his asking and her answer. "But everyone calls him Alec." She ran the name around in her head a few times, and not for the first time. It was elegant. She quite liked it, really.

"Alec…" he repeated, and she couldn't tell if it was a question or if he was just thinking aloud, though she suspected the latter.

"Yes. Alec, with a 'c'. You know, more… elegant than Alex. Nicer."

"I heard you - and you're right about that last part. I was just thinking."

"Okay. I thought that was it." He made a small, acknowledging noise, and she stepped fully out the door, grasping the strong, heavy thing with both hands, her painted fingernails standing out, the navy blue looking bright against the dark, enchanted metal (courtesy of Rowan). She sent him one last look out of the corner of her eyes, and started to close the door.

"And the boy's?" he asked, and this time she looked at him full on, as he was to her. Neither of their gazes wavered. "The one Jonathan killed?"

"Maxwell. Max."

He nodded, and she looked away. Suddenly, she remembered what she had to tell him, what she had seen at the party.

"James, there's-"

"Wait," he piped up again, voice weaker this time. She flicked her eyes to him, then to her feet. "And don't mention Emma again," he said to her, as if reading her mind, knowing exactly what she wanted to say. "Not her or anyone else."

She turned her head to look at him, wayward strands of dark hair in her face. She swallowed.

"Alright."

He nodded, and sat down, back in that same spot, but this time his knees were to his chest and his forehead was resting against them, arms wrapped around his legs, curled into loose fists, thumb tapping away at his fingers. That same rhythm.

"What were you going to say?" he asked, sounding defeated, sounding almost like he knew she wouldn't say it now, and she shook her head.

"Nothing," she said, and closed the door with a creaking thunk, the clicking heels of her boots echoing in the hallway as she walked, like the never-ending whispers of all the promises she broke long ago.

A/N: Okay, prologue! Not really the longest, but whatever! It's seven books, what do you want from me?

If the formatting is weird, sorry. iPhone. Let me know what's off and I'll try to fix it, but no guarantee.

Also, do you remember how in Only One, Sherlock mentioned killing the loving shit out of Alec?

SHE WILL DO THAT TO YOU IF YOU DON'T REVIEW.

That is all. Probably. But I don't think so. I forget things a lot.

Later!

~CNoel


	2. Chapter 1

A/N:

This is awkward because I am writing this after the A/N at the end…

So I'm sorry about the wait, but in all honesty I did redo the prologue so technically this update didn't take too long. So please, put away your pitchforks and bazookas.

*hides until mob calms*

And damn, this is shorter than I thought it would be. Sorry about that… I'll try and make the others longer, cause I know you guys like them that way (lol that's what she said).

At least, it looks fairly short here. I dunno.

{Chapter One}

~The Magic of the

Morning~

"Alec…"

Alec tried not to move and kept his breathing steady. A finger prodded sharply him in the shoulder and he frowned, gritting his teeth.

"Aaaaallleeec…" came the singsong voice again. He held back a scowl and squeezed his eyes shut tighter, as if that would block out the sound and send him spiraling back into a quiet, dreamless sleep.

"Psst, Alec…"

By the Angel, he couldn't take it anymore. He shot up, hands curling into fists, eyes blazing in a bright blue fury.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

Magnus, beside him, chuckled as if he was expecting exactly that to happen, and Alec closed his eyes in frustration and flopped back down onto the pillows in a dramatic, Magnus-y way (which, when he realized it, frustrated him even more), cursing under his breath with a frown, feeling the sudden wave of tiredness sweep back over him. He rolled away from his boyfriend's voice, and he could swear that he could hear all the glitter he had painted on himself just… sparkling.

"Well, you're quite pleasant this morning," Magnus chirped, and Alec, the very tired, very unpleasant Shadowhunter, rolled over yet again, squinting at the sudden onslaught of glitter in his face. He scowled, closing his eyes to avoid the near-certain risk of blindness.

"If you woke me up for a makeover, Magnus, I swear, I'll –" Magnus cut him off, laughing. Which was, he supposed, all for the better, because he was too tired to construct a proper revenge plan. The most he had was something about feeding his glitter to a bunch of ducks, which was certain to get him turned into one.

"No, no," he said, playfully – or flirtatiously, you could never tell with Magnus – pulling on a lock of Alec's dark, messy hair. He resisted the urge to swat his hand away, but felt the desire dissolve. That was Magnus for you, he thought to himself, a bit irritated that his mood was starting to improve. He deepened his scowl and grumbled to himself about how he needs his sleep, which Magnus, of course, ignored. "As much as I'd love to hear you screaming," Magnus continued, not even noticing as Alec's face twisted into a grimace (and Alec only figured that because the warlock did not stop to laugh), "I would do that while you sleep so no one thinks I'm murdering you." He, finally looking down at the poor Shadowhunter's face, laughed as Alec's scowl morphed into some indescribably horrified expression, blue eyes flying open. He may be a demon hunter, but this was definitely how he was going to die. "As I was about to commence with this act-" Alec looked even more horrified, if that was possible, his mouth dropping open "-your phone starting going off. Dreadful racket, that thing makes. Gives me an awful headache."

Alec rolled his eyes, his horror quickly receding at the realization that Magnus was done messing with him, and moved to roll over, away from the blinding flashes of the noisy glitter, and go back to sleep, when his slow and muddled brain finally got past the whole makeover thing and registered what Magnus had just said to him. He pushed himself into a sitting position with one arm, using the other in a vain attempt to rub the sleep from his eyes, which had somehow manifested again, despite the rude awakening and jarring feelings of intense fear.

"When? Who was it?" he asked, stifling a yawn. "And what time is it?"

Magnus laughed, earning an annoyed glance from the poor, sleep-deprived, and frowning Alec, his eyes slightly unfocused and a bit of a duller blue. Magnus threw a sidelong glance at a nearby clock, glitter and (in Alec's opinion) horrifically bright colors nearly masking the elegant, hard-to-read numbers. Magnus, of course, saw nothing wrong with the neon orange thing, and insisted on throwing more and more glitter on there every day. Alec just thought that was the worst clock in the world, ever. "Maybe, fifteen minutes ago, Jace, and 6:35 a.m." he responded, flashing his grumpy boyfriend a sparkly grin, holding out his black phone, as if to prove all three of his points correct. Alec, on the other hand, was about as far from grinning (and sparkly) as you could get.

"Fifteen minutes ago! Why didn't you wake me sooner?" he yelled out, snatching the phone out of Magnus's hand and literally jumping out of bed, heart beating frantically. He had to go! Jace was going to kill him! He and Izzy would never let him hear the end of this if it was something important! Suddenly, he stopped, a kind of cold realization settling in, sinking into his bones, and he stiffened, whipping around to face Magnus, his eyes glowing in fury.

"SIX THIRTY? IN THE MORNING?" he yelled, even louder this time, one hand flying to his wild, messy hair in exasperation, the other pointing at his boyfriend, as if accusing him of something, his phone flying out of his hand and landing on the bed. "WHY DID YOU WAKE ME UP AT SIX THIRTY? IN THE MORNING?" Magnus, he could tell, nearly burst out laughing here, but kept his mouth shut tight, only a small, obviously restrained, twitching grin sneaking onto his face, making the glitter on his cheeks shimmer.

"Mood swings, much?" he remarked, the barely restrained laughter dancing on his voice.

Alec snarled, and grabbed his phone in a swiping motion, angrily calling Jace back and violently bringing the phone up to his ear, ignoring the slight sting as he slammed the phone against it, muttering angrily to himself.

"This had better be good… who the hell calls someone at six in the morning? By the Angel, I'm going to kill that stupid-ass Jace…"

It was still ringing. Alec didn't even know how long it had been, he just knew it was six in the morning and he needed his sleep.

"ANSWER THE GODDAMN PHONE!" he screamed into the speaker, hand shaking in sleepy rage. Then, finally, Jace picked up, only to be met by Alec's furious growl of "What the hell do you want?"

Behind him, he heard Magnus smirk. He flashed him the finger as Jace burst into laughter, almost as if he had seen it himself. Alec's eye twitched and he ground his teeth together. He had gotten absolutely no sleep the night before - it wasn't even his fault! That stupid Jace had kept him up with all that training! It was three in the morning when Alec had finally gotten here! And even then, Magnus had repeatedly tried to talk him into… well. His cheeks flushed thinking about it. But to the point, Jace had kept him up for most of the night. He was going to kill that little blond.

"THIS IS NOT FUNNY, HERONDALE!" he screamed.

"What's not funny, Alec?" Jace asked innocently, completely ignoring that whole Herondale business. Alec, who only dared call him that when he was angry, annoyed, trying to make a point, or all three, seethed.

"Just… Just what do you want?"

"Oh, come on. You wanna chat a little first? Do some catching up?"

Alec's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "I JUST SAW YOU YESTERDAY!"

"Today, technically," Jace said smugly, and Alec could swear he heard Isabelle giggling in the background.

"It's not a day until I go to sleep and wake up in the morning," he mumbled. "And do you have my sister on your side, too?"

"Alec," Jace said smoothly, a kind of exaggerated tone to his voice. "I cannot believe you would accuse me of such a dreadful thing."

"That's not denying it."

Jace was silent for a split second, and someone made a muffled comment Alec could not quite make out. Laughter, and Jace cursed, probably at Isabelle. Alec couldn't help but grin, even though his remark was not the one to overtake him.

"Just… just get over here," he snapped, sounding like Izzy's teasing had sucked all the joy from the world, leaving it just plain, stark black and white. Not like Alec would mind that - and really, he felt like Jace would be more opposed to a world consisting entirely of hot pink.

"Fine," he snapped, equally despising the idea of a pink world, just the thought of it sending his already desolate, fuming mood spiraling even lower.

"Now, make sure you come right over Alec. It's very important."

Alec closed his eyes in frustration. Fast recovery. He wondered if he would still be so nonchalant if he told him Magnus would make it so he saw only in shades of a hideously bright pink.

"Yeah, okay, I'll be right there." He shook the idea off. Magnus was standing right there, and he didn't want to put ideas in the warlock's head. He was crazy. He'd probably cast it on Alec just for fun. He shuddered at the thought.

"So you're coming? It's quite early, I don't want you falling asleep again."

"YES, Jace, I'm coming!" He briefly reconsidered that whole pink curse thing. Perhaps there really was that sort of spell?

"You're on your way?"

"That's what I just said. Jace, I-" God, he could just imagine Magnus's snickering. He'd wake up one day and it'd all be pink. Not worth the risk. No, no matter how much Jace would hate it, it wasn't worth the risk at all.

"And you are not going to stop for McDonalds or anything on the way? You won't take the subway or a bus just so you can sleep?"

Then again…

"STOP GODDAMN SCREWING WITH ME!"

"That's not what Magnus said."

Alec screamed loudly and forcefully hung up the phone, just about ready to throw it across the room, and was literally about to ask Magnus to cast that pink-o-vision spell on Jace, and to invent one of it didn't already exist. But then he caught sight of Magnus and his smirking, and decided that he could never trust the man with such a terrifying spell, and that it would be both much more productive and much more satisfying to throw the phone at him. Such an act would surely mess up his hair, Alec schemed, and screw up his glitter and makeup. But at the same time, said his calmer common sense, it would get all that sticky, multicolored glitter all over his sleek, black phone, and he was sure neither of them wanted that to happen. Okay, yes, Alec's mind continued, Magnus would like to see Alec's black phone get all glittery, and Alec would absolutely love screwing up his glitter and spiked hair, but vise-versa? No, no, no. Alec knew he would blow a fuse and never be able to clean the damn thing, and Magnus was sure to turn him into a fish or squirrel or something. Or even come up with that pink thing all on his own. Alec told himself that throwing the phone was a stupid idea anyway and pushed it to the back of his mind.

But still, that whole squirrel thing would be a valid excuse to stay here and sleep, wouldn't it? And what was a little glitter on his phone? He could always guilt Magnus or trick someone into cleaning it for him.

A small smile slowly creeped onto his face. "If you keep smirking like that," he began, crossing his arms triumphantly and confidently over his chest, "I will throw this phone at you and mess up your hair."

Magnus scoffed. "Please, darling. I spent two hours making it look this good."

Alec, smirking, raised an eyebrow. "I know."

"You wouldn't."

"I swear I will. I swear by the Angel I will if you do not wipe that grin off your face."

And, with that, Magnus knew he was serious. He forced the smile off his face with a struggle, but immediately after, it twitched back, the movement in his cheeks making the glitter shimmer like rainbows in the dim lights.

"So I guess you've gotta go," he said, swiftly changing the subject, almost nervously prodding at his hair with a slightly sparkling hand. "Your unpleasant-ness will definitely scare away the demons." Magnus smiled at the burning intensity of the glare Alec was throwing at him. "Alright, alright. I'll let you sleep more next time." Alec felt relief wash over him like a cool tidal wave on a boiling hot day. He hoped Magnus wasn't lying - though he suspected he was.

"See?" continued Magnus with a smug grin (yes, definitely lying), "You're welcome. Now, do I get a good-bye kiss?" Alec, despite himself, grinned, moving forward, gently pushing their lips together. Magnus's arms snaked around his neck, about to mess up his hair even more, when Alec's memory slapped him upside the head, and so he reluctantly pulled away. Magnus pouted as Alec backed away, blue eyes flashing.

"I've gotta go, before Jace calls again to nag me," he said, his parabatai's name dripping with scorn, slipping into the brightly tiled bathroom to get ready, squinting because it hurt his eyes. He couldn't believe Magnus found it necessary to glitter this place up, too. He could barely stand to be inside it, much less take a piss in the place. Closed the door before his even sparklier boyfriend could make a remark. He sighed once the door clicked shut. By the Angel, he was tired. He shook his head wildly in an attempt to awaken himself, and ran the water, holding a hand under the steady stream to make sure it was cold, his eyes closed the whole time, almost as if he was hoping to cash in a few more minutes' sleep. He sighed in irritation when his hand started to go slightly numb from the cold. Grumbling unintelligibly, even to himself, he leaned over the sink and used both hands to splash some of the ice water in his face. He gasped. Shit, that's cold!

Fumbling for a towel, his bangs dripping water down his face in a steady stream and sticking to his forehead, he ran the back of his hand over his eyes and let them open.

"By the Angel!" he whispered, very nearly bursting out into a yell. He looked awful; his hair looked like someone ran a static balloon over it, his lips were chapped, there was gunk in the corners of his eyes, which were a dull, unfocused blue and surrounded by dark and large circles.

He shoved his face underneath the stream of freezing water. He was absolutely shocked the mirror hadn't broken. He was absolutely shocked Magnus had been able to stomach kissing him. He pulled away from the water before his face could turn into a block of ice. He reached over, and finally, felt the softness of a towel, pressing it to his face, vigorously scrubbing at it and his dripping hair. Once he felt that he had done a sufficient job at it, he pulled it away, holding the ridiculously soft thing loosely in his hands, and stared, once again, at his reflection.

He didn't look too bad anymore, he admitted. His red were brighter, the circles had shrunk and lightened, and all the crusty shit at his eyes was gone. His lips had taken on a slight pinkish tinge, and though his hair was still damp, he had somehow managed to get it to be a bit more neat and tolerable without even trying. He took one hand and smoothed it down. Really, he should be hurrying. Jace was going to kill him. And when did he become so worried about appearance? He was going to fight a demon, for God's sake!

Hey, he realized, my hair's done. He dropped his long-fingered, scarred hand and stared, unblinkingly, into the mirror, his previous train of thought halting abruptly in its tracks.

His hair, smoothed down but still knotted in some places, was very black, starkly contrasting his pale-white skin, making his eyes look even brighter and bluer than they really were, his lips a slightly paler pink. He needed it cut, he noticed. It came down to cover his eyebrows and most of his ears, going about halfway down the back of his neck. He sighed. Soon, it would be a mane - Alec's wavy-but-not-curly hair had never really been one for that whole slow and steady thing - starkly contrasting him - and had always been quick to grow. He figured that he would be completely blinded by the dark mass of wavy tangles within about two or three days, and that whole mane thing would be going down after about a week.

Oh good lord. He was becoming a woman. No, worse! A freaking Magnus! He was a Magnus Bane, about five seconds away from glitter and makeup and designer clothes of the neon variety, who cared more for hairstyles and looks than his job, which just so happened to be fighting demons and protecting people from them. It was his worst nightmare - even worse than the world of pink he was considering so seriously just minutes ago.

Just think of what Jace, Izzy, and Magnus would have to say about this, he thought to himself.

He resisted the urge to scream, hands in his hair, messing it up (but he truly did t give a damn), and he ran from the bathroom, pulling on some pants on the way out and jumping into his shoes at the door. He was pretty sure he had his Steele and phone, but he didn't care whether or not he did or didn't. He was really more concerned about washing the Magnus-ness away with a manly run and discarding the mental image of him in some of his boyfriend's clothes.

And with that thought, he very nearly keeled over into the street and vomited. But, as Jace constantly pointed out, men do not vomit, nor do they keel, but they run away from the stray thoughts of glitter and hairstyles.

Alec - and he nearly stopped in his tracks and screamed in fury, falling to his knees - felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. And just to spite the little blondie, he slowed to a brisk walk.

"Suck on that, bitch," he mumbled to nobody (as a man gave him a strange look, having apparently heard), and wow, he really was turning into either Magnus Bane or a temperamental - actually, who the hell was he kidding? It was just Magnus freaking Bane.

He chalked it up to how tired he was and kept walking, his thoughts scattering like the loose leaves on an autumn tree that had just been slapped by a strong gust of trembling wind.

~~/|\~~

Sherlock Raywind was half asleep. It was, after all, six-something in the morning.

Luckily, the horribly polluted air of New York City was about enough to keep anyone awake. She wondered how the stupid mundanes could stand living here. All the noise, the filthy, smelly air, the constricting crowds…

Ugh. She had never liked big, crowded cities. She preferred Idris. Sure, it was pretty crowded to, and Alicante was quite big, but it was clean, and it was quiet. The people were polite enough (to her, at least, maybe not to Downworlders), unlike these animals. You so much as bump into one of them, they go off on a rage, about just how damn expensive this suit was, how they're headed off to a very important meeting, how you better not have wrinkled their fancy clothes or scuffed their shiny shoes. Well, Sherlock has three words for these morons; Get. A. Car. But then again, road rage would probably be out of control if these freaks started driving, honking horns blaring constantly, screaming ringing out through the night, flashes of vehicular homicide on the news - not like she really watched it with much faithfulness, anyway. But still. She hated obnoxious people.

She sighed, running a hand through her dark hair. Stretching, she uncrossed her legs, pushing herself off of the cold, dirty bench, wrinkling her nose as her hand came into contact with it. She wondered if anyone had sex on this bench. Probably - and recently, too. Everything, it seemed, in this city was dirty. She hated it. Shaking her left leg awake, she walked over to the nearest window, one attached to a Laundromat. Squinting into the glass, trying to see past all the washers and dryers and the mundane mundanes going about on their mundane lives, Sherlock stared into her reflection, assessing it, looking for imperfections to fix.

Her lips, long and thin, were pressed together, in obvious disgust over the city and its dirty air, garbage-filled streets and obnoxious residents. Her lashes were dark, long and curling, perfectly framing her hazel, unexpressive eyes. Her eyebrows were knotted together in annoyance over the stink and horrid noises of the city, but when relaxed, they were thin and arched, giving her a slightly surprised look. Her face was, like the rest of her, long and thin, defined cheekbones giving her a mysterious, maybe intimidating look. The fact that her face and eyes almost always had a cold, sealed-off look, almost as if she were wearing a mask, furthered this observation. But that did not mean she wasn't attractive. Oh, no. In her opinion, of course, she was very beautiful, and most men would agree. What wasn't to be admired about her? Twenty-two years old, tall, thin, a chest to be proud of, a smile that could stop the sun. Yes, Sherlock Raywind was very, very beautiful.

Except, she notice with a pang of frustration, for her hair. The filthy, polluted wind had been whipping it about on her head as if it were a cat with a plaything. Now, her dark brown waves were in disarray. She scowled, causing a mundane that just happened to look over to jump in fear. Smoothing out her hair with long-fingered and tanned hands, she smiled, slightly amused by the look on his face, thankful she hadn't been using a glamour like Rowan suggested. She loved messing with mundanes.

She had always loved and hated using glamours. She hated them because they were a real pain in the ass to use, and because she had never quite gotten used to the feeling of not being seen. The way cars never stopped in the street to let her pass, the way people stared blankly through her… it just made her feel insignificant. Like nothing, even though she knew she wasn't. It was just the effect of no one ever seeing you. But on the on the other hand, she loved them for the same reason. Well, not the making her feel like nothing part, but the other parts. She loved it when the mundanes looked right through her, like she wasn't there, just because she hated the way they looked at her when she was.

Mostly, it was the men. All men looked at her in the same way; like they wanted to run away from their wives or girlfriends and have sex with her. She hated the pining, lusty intensity in their eyes, how their mouths dropped open and they practically started drooling over her. She hated it, because it showed just what was most important to them – big boobs and a pretty face.

But the women weren't innocent. She hated how they glare at her in jealousy as they drag their men along by the ear, far away from her. If looks could kill, she'd be dead a thousand times over. She hated this, because it showed just what was most important to them – attention from men.

But sometimes the women did not scold their men for staring at her beauty, but stopped to admire it as well. Sherlock could always see the desperation in their eyes, could hear the silent prayer going around in their head that maybe, one day, they could look like her, and not like they saw themselves – ugly, fat, and unappealing. She hated it, because, like the other women, it showed just what was most important to them – the men.

But rarely, too rarely, she thought, do the women look at her in the way she loved more than most things in life. Men are always too distracted by her beauty, her boobs, her ass, to notice or care. Women were normally too busy trying to get their men back into line, jealousy burning in their eyes, to see. Other women were too preoccupied with the way she walked, the way she always got the men to stop and stare, the way they want to be just like her, to even think about noticing. But some women, the smartest ones, the ones who don't care what men think of them or how men look at her, those women would look her in the eyes and see past her cold, guarded mask. And they would be horrified at what they see, looking at her not in jealousy or admiration, but in pure, unrelenting disgust.

And those were the women she liked best.

They brought no shame to other mundane women, as the others do, always too caring over what men think. It's always men, men, men with the jealous or admiring women, men rule the world, men tell us what to do, men must always be obeyed. Sherlock hated the mundanes, because most were just too stupid to realize that men don't matter. And most of them were just stupid. A generic, infuriating stupid. Ugh.

She felt eyes on her, and let her own light ones dart to a corner in the Laundromat, catching the eye of a man, handsome, but in some of the worst, most painfully near-neon colors she had seen. She shuddered inwardly, eyes flicking away, cool mask showing none of her aversion to the atrocities he apparently saw as viable clothing options. Part of her hoped that he was only wearing those because he had no laundry, and that some colorblind, senile, and old, old, old relative bought them for him. She had to admit, if neither was the case, she felt quite bad for him. But still, he looked stupid enough to screw with. The clothes - if they could even be called clothes - just about proved to her that his IQ was likely in the single-digits. She placed a suggestive smile onto her face and adjusted her top so that even more cleavage was showing than before (which, quite frankly, she would have done anyway), the dark and graceful runes with their swooping lines invisible to him - and it was almost a shame. Some of them, in her opinion, looked quite nice. She twirled her long, silver necklace between her fingers and shot a look at the man, a fake look of attraction. He jumped and smiled. She winked at the man, wanting to see how he and these women would react, and the stepped away from the window and her now perfect reflection, catching a glimpse of the staring, horribly dressed man, a woman beside him, glaring.

Smiling, she turned around, savoring the longing gazes and fiery glares, but not because of what they meant, because of the attention. She hated the meaning of the looks, as she had already gone over for the millionth time in her head, but she wasn't sure she could live without all the attention, like she was always under a cold, isolating glamour. Banishing the thought from her head with a blink, she began walking down the already crowded street, wondering exactly why all these mundanes were already up and about. But, then again, she shouldn't be too harsh on the idiots. After all, she herself was walking down the filthy sidewalk, breathing the filthy air, here at six-something in the morning. Really, it had to be almost seven now, but when had they woken up? Six, even five, she would guess. Rowan had practically hexed her out of bed at about five-something, nearly six. Sherlock nearly kicked her face in. But she didn't, because she was far too tired for that nonsense (at the time), and she knew that she had a mission, and an important one at that. She wondered vaguely to herself if she had planned to simply wander around and hope to find the Lightwood boy, to conveniently just bump into him on the sidewalk with absolutely no other effort on her part - other than the waking up, of course, and even that was mostly Rowan. And all that spying - which was all her.

A dark-haired young man quickly brushed by her, their shoulders bumping into each other, nearly causing her to veer off balance and topple to the ground. It was a good thing she was used to wearing heels, even if they were only an inch high. Pissed off, she turned to face him, ready to give him a stern glare and maybe a sharp comment or two, noticing that he too, was stopping. Sherlock scowled. He had probably done it on purpose, wanting an opportunity to flirt with her. It had, after all, happened many times before. She looked at him, and holy shit, it was the Lightwood, who had literally just bumped into her out of nowhere! She could just grab him right here, if he was alone! Was he? Her eyes darted quickly to the people around them, too fast for him to register. No one seemed to be scoping them out, to be lurking. She could do it right now…

No! Play it cool!

She forced her eyebrows together as if digging around in her mind for a name to match his face, like she knew him from long ago. Trick him. You're a trickster, Sherlock. James even said so. And it was true - she was a convincing actress. She brought a hand up and stroked the swooping lines of the rune on her chest, hoping the gesture looked like an idle one. She couldn't trick him with seduction. She had to play another hand.

Alec Lightwood smiled apologetically at her, and they exchanged I'm sorry's and It was my fault's and all that shit. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, purposefully flashing him a clear view of the open-eye rune on the back of her hand.

But he looked about to leave. He was a Shadowhunter, he was probably off meeting his parabatai of something for a mission. She had to act quickly.

Sherlock cleared her throat and tilted her head slightly, almost as if to make what she was about to say seem very important, and sure enough, Alec seemed to perk up, his eyebrows raising slightly, ready to listen, though he still looked a bit jittery, ready to go, polite excuse in place. Still, she almost smiled. He was giving her the attention she loved without the lusty look of a fool. Most men were too busy looking at her boobs to even hear her clearing her throat. Yes, he was gay, but she liked that about him.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" she asked, sounding, to herself, a bit forward, but unsure how to put it more discreetly. Discreet had never really been her strong point, and she was a bit pressed for time. "I'm sorry for being so… forward, but you just look so familiar, and if I don't figure it out, it's going to keep me up all night." She snapped her mouth shut with an audible snap and put a stunned and embarrassed look on her face, as if she had blurted out more than she would have liked to, playing the act of embarrassed girl. People opened up more that way, she found. He blinked, steady blue eyes flicking to the swirling runes on her chest, the open eye on her hand.

"I… I know what you mean," said Alec, and he brushed dark bangs from his face, showing off his own open-eyed Mark. "I hate when that happens. But, no, I don't think I know you. Sorry."

She twirled a spiraling wave of chocolate brown hair between her fingers. "Are you sure? Because I am almost positive I've seen you before, or at least some sort of evil twin brother or whatever," she replied, forcing a small smile to twitch onto her face, and sent and embarrassed glance at her brown, knee-high leather high-heeled boots. "What's your name? Not to be forward or creeper-ish or anything. Mine's Sherlock, by the way. Like the detective, but much sexier." Sherlock blinked as if in shock at her own words, trying to force a rosy blush across her cheeks. She smiled sheepishly on the outside, and swore violently inwardly. Hurry the hell up! You haven't got all freaking day!

Oblivious to her self-scolding, Alec laughed. She smiled weakly back. She honestly didn't find him to be all that bad or Lightwood-y. It was almost a shame, but it made it a bit better, too. The better the boy, the more he would be liked, and the more hurt it will bring to his parents. To everyone, really. "Sherlock. I like it," he said, rubbing at his eyes with long and pale fingers. There were dark circles beneath them, suggesting a severe lack of sleep. No wonder, if he was up at this hour. How the hell did the mundanes do it, if Shadowhunters barely could? "My name's Alec," he said, his uncertain, shy-sounding voice once again snapping her out of her thoughts, and she nodded as if she hadn't already known. She, almost subconsciously and not for the first time, ran the name in her mind a few times. It was classy, elegant. She liked the name very much. "Alec Lightwood."

Then, he took a phone from his pocket, glancing for one split-second at the screen.

Shit! she screamed in her head. He knew he was running late. She had to move fast! She brought her hand up and grasped the charm of her long necklace, securing it in her fist, tugging lightly. She had to get a glamour ready, in case it came to force. Who the hell was she kidding? Of course it would. Her cool mask-face showing no sign of her frantic planning, she easily summoned a smile. She had to keep talking, to keep him here.

"You know what," she said before he could make a comment on the time or anything, her brain quickly trying to calculate a way to take him away without him screaming and thrashing about, if there even was one, "that name does sound very, very familiar. I mean, the name Alec I don't hear a lot, and it's a nice name, I like it, but Lightwood," she very nearly spat the name, having nearly given up on trying to find a peaceful solution, "that sounds very familiar. Maybe just because it's a Shadowhunter name, but I don't think I know any of your family. Or maybe I do, I'm not sure," she struggled to find ways to keep her ramble going, cool mask steady, unwavering, "I mean, I don't want to sound weird or stalker-ish, but, ya'know, this whole thing, it's gonna keep me up all night." She forced a laugh, rushing to get that damn glamour ready. "Are you sure I don't know you from somewhere? 'Cause after waking up this early, I don't want to lose any more sleep." She had run out of ways to keep talking. She had to settle for the most obvious - and pretty much the only - situation to this dilemma. Unfortunately, it involved kidnapping, which she had hoped to avoid. It was such a hassle, what with the glamours and brute force. And she had just fixed herself up, too. Her clothes were bound to get wrinkled, her hair would be messed up, and the horrors it would do to her newly applied nail polish! Not to mention the risk to her face! If she received so much as a cut…

With an inward sigh, she brushed it off. The threat to her looks was an unpleasant one, yes, but those could be fixed. Really, it wasted her time. Kidnapping him would negate all the charming acting she had done, make it pointless, a waste of precious seconds, precious minutes. Hell, precious months! She didn't need to spy on him, discover his tendencies, his personality if she was just going to grab him and run! She wondered why she didn't just pop up and snatch him in the first place. She supposed it could be because she wanted to scope him out, get a feel for him, first. Help decide the punishment, the death. But she could figure that out with trial and error! God, this was why she made Rowan plan these things.

But it was okay, she told herself. The extra stuff couldn't hurt. The storm in her head calmed. Her thoughts were eerily calm, vivid and sharp, very clear.

Alec laughed again, amused by her long ranting, completely oblivious to her malicious plans for him. "Yeah, I know what you mean." He glanced behind him, and Sherlock supposed it was because he was trying to send the message that he had to go, and she shifted her feet ever do slightly, ready to pounce. But instead of shrugging of her long, ramble speech, he looked back at her and tilted his head, examining her long, slender face, and she sent her eyes back down to her boots, feigning humble embarrassment. Humble. Hah. "But I don't think I know anyone named Sherlock - if I did, I'd probably remember. It's not a common name. What's your last name? Maybe I know that."

He was at the end of his line. He was going to leave.

Now, Sherlock.

She didn't answer. She threw a glamour on the both of them with a face of stone, her entire act wiped clean off, and his eyes went wide and shimmered brightly in shock. He tensed, and looked about ready to throw a punch, and he was quick, but her fist came forward like the crack of a whip, blink and you don't even realize until it's ringing in your ears, slicing across your back and stinging like a hundred bees. Yes, he was fast when it came to most anyone, but her fist connected with his eye before he even pulled his arm all the way back. He staggered, eye squeezed shut, shock written on his face as dark and obvious as the runes on his body, and she swept her foot around, kicking his feet out from under him, and he went down, already twisting to catch himself. She brought her foot down forcefully on his chest, knocking the wind out of him, pushing him down even harder and faster. Instinctively, he snapped back around, grabbing her ankle with both hands, one of the boot's buckles biting into his skin. He hit the ground, sooner than he anticipated, and he gasped, his head smacking against the hard pavement. There was a small splatter of blood, just a few drops, but enough. He lay still and limp, eyes closed, but she lifted her foot from his chest and slammed it on his head for good measure. She felt a crack - his nose.

Sherlock relaxed, dropping out of her combat stance, smoothing out her dark, off-green shirt - tight fitting everywhere, but with flaring sleeves down at her hands, nowhere else. She knelt down, careful not to let her tight blue jeans touch down on the dirty, litter-covered ground, and grabbed Alec under the arms, lifting him effortlessly, throwing him over her shoulder. She grunted quietly - he wasn't exactly a featherweight. There was a clatter, and she faintly felt the near nonexistent vibrations of an object hitting the ground at her feet. She looked down. Alec Lightwood's cellphone, black and vividly obvious on the light-colored sidewalk. Smiling to herself, she threw him back down with a thud, ugly black sweater and similarly colored jeans starting to get wrinkled and dirty, but it was almost an improvement. She picked up the phone, a smooth, black thing, light and cool, a single speck of glitter sticking to it. Ignoring it, she flipped it open, noting that he had two missed calls from Isabelle and seven unread texts from Jace. She smirked, skimming through them. Most were making fun of him, asking if he was having sex with Magnus, asking if he was even alive, screaming in all caps for him to hurry up and get over to the Institute. She shook her head, amused, clicking out of the messages and dialing Rowan's cell phone, pressing the thing to her ear after swiftly brushing her hair behind it. Three rings.

"Hello?" she said into the phone, sounding bored. Sherlock smirked.

"Rowan, it's me."

She could swear she heard her stiffen. "Hey," she said, sounding much more energetic, if a bit falsely. Rowan was a decent actress, but she was never as good as Sherlock. "Got him?"

"No, I just decided to steal a cell phone and give you a call. How are you doing? Is the lair okay? Of course I got him!" she said, exasperated. "Now get a portal over here so I don't have to carry him all the way to Pennsylvania."

"Alright, alright," she said, false eagerness gone from her voice, replaced by the routine annoyance that had been lying underneath. "Don't get your panties in a bunch."

Click.

Sherlock, fuming, though you'd never know by her face, calm as a lake untouched by bugs, fish, or a gentle breeze, snapped the phone shut harshly.

"Bitch," she muttered, pocketing the phone and rolling her eyes. Hand still grasping the phone in her pocket, she ran a thumb along it. She liked it. It was a nice color, and had a good feel in her hand, between her fingers. She made a mental note to get the number changed so she could keep it. Her own phone… well, James had to learn that yes, sometimes Sherlock Raywind will hit you with a phone, even of you are in an angry and borderline-murderous mood, and you just had to take it, rather than smashing the dark maroon thing to bits. She sighed at the memory, feeling the familiar prick of irritation. She had his sunlight cut off for a week - a grave punishment for him. But still, she was careful to not him with important objects after that.

She turned around swiftly and, as always, gracefully at a noise behind her. Not just a regular, mundie noise, but a familiar one. A portal had formed behind her, a shimmering hole, a tear in the world, deep, and bleeding sparks. From the dark blue shine stepped Rowan, long black hair hanging loose and straight just past her shoulders, almost halfway down her upper arm, eyes sparkling like dark blue chips taken from the sky of a well-lit night, or late in the twilight. Short and a bit chubby, she was wearing a black shirt with sleeves that went just past her elbows and a dark jean skirt that cut off mid-thigh, the smooth, pale skin of her legs exposed. The plain, 447 year-old warlock was quite a contrast to Sherlock, with her waves of borderline-curly long hair that nearly reached her elbows, her long legs, long arms, long and skinny everything, her tanned skin, big boobs, and drop-dead gorgeous looks. Sherlock, after making this comparison in her head, smiled, pleased with her beauty, and haughtily flipped her hair. Rowan, thinking she wouldn't notice, rolled her eyes. Sherlock frowned with her eyes, her self-satisfied smile swiftly morphing into a cool, condescending one. She pointed at Alec's prone body and raised an impatient eyebrow.

"Pick him up already," she said, voice dripping with venom, "And carry him back."

Rowan complied, dark red sparks spiraling to the ground from her fingertips. As the boy's face came closer into veiw, she glanced down at him, very pale next to Rowan's dark hair plus his own, the blood on his forhead such a bright red compared to the whiteness of his skin and the blackness of his hair. His closed eyelids were tinted with blue, and if the glance had been a split-second shorter, it would have looked as if the blue from his eyes was leaking through the pale skin. But already, dark bruises were forming, very purple, very blue, stranding out almost as starkly as the blood on his near-white flesh. What a shame, she thought dryly, he had a pretty face. Then, in a flash of white and red and black, he was thrown carelessly over Rowan's shoulder. Her face didn't change, not in the slightest way. Sherlock figured she must be using magic to make the Lightwood lighter, as Rowan was much smaller than her, not as strong. She sighed and examined her nails, hoping she hadn't broken one in the fight - which was so one-sided she hesitated to even call it one. She thought that she should rename it to something that more appropriately fit the circumstances. The beat-down. The pounding. Ah, she'd figure it out eventually.

Satisfied with her left hand, she moved on to her right, and nearly screamed. She bit it back just in time, but still emitted a high-pitched squeak. Rowan looked at her, her blue eyes dull and bored, but not without a slight and dying spark of curiosity, and Sherlock could tell that she was wishing for a serious problem to add some excitement to this, quote, "Boring-ass, routine mission", which, to be honest, Sherlock only partially agreed with. Not like she'd admit it, of course.

"What's wrong?" Rowan said, trying to force concern into her voice, but she just sounded very bored and a little constipated. Sherlock looked at her and asked if she was the latter because she sure sounded like it. Rowan, in response, looked at her like she was crazy and repeated the question, clearly less curious and far more sarcastically now, because it was obvious that nothing serious had happened.

"I broke a nail," Sherlock said, and she wasn't embarrassed about it, but Rowan seemed determined to make her that because she rolled her eyes and huffed and turned away. She scowled after her, and looked back down to her hand. "It took me forever to get them just right! And unless you're willing to fix it-"

"No"

"-for me," Sherlock continued as if the blue-eyed warlock had never spoken, "I'll have to cut them all!"

Rowan sighed heavily, and looked back at her. "You know what, Sherlock?" Sherlock, who knew better than to hope when it came to Rowan, looked up anyway, staring almost expectantly at her.

"Tell the unconscious guy. He's probably going to be much better at giving a shit."

Sherlock, after a moment of tense silence, flipped her the bird, and Rowan smirked, stepping into the blue crack in the world.

"You…" she whispered after her, dropping her hands to her sides and curling her fingers into fists. "You…"

She sighed, defeated. She didn't really know how to punish the woman. She figured she'd just ask James, but they really didn't get along at all. Or even like each other. Or even… feel neutral about each other. She blinked in thought as she walked to the portal. The three of them were nothing like the other three of them, so long ago.

She stepped into the portal, but threw a glance backward as she disappeared. She felt like something had been staring, like she had forgotten something.

Vaguely, she hoped it wasn't another Shadowhunter - particularly not Prostitute, Blondie, or Incest. And especially not that mess of blinding glitter. Scowling, and with her eyes only half open in case she was met with that mess of brightness, she turned her head and looked behind her.

Just the mundane mundanes, going on with their mundane days so exceedingly mundanely, with their smelly cars and shiny shoes and fancy clothes they spent too much of their smelly green money on, so oblivious and boring, petty and stupid, greedy and selfish. There was nothing, nothing of interest, nothing that even looked or felt to her even almost not mundane. She sighed in annoyance and boredom. She was just paranoid. Sherlock was always like this, always thinking someone was there after she had accomplished whatever she had set out to accomplish.

Sherlock turned back around, and as she blinked, she opened her eyes to home.

A/N:

Okay, so I know it's been quite a while, but I'm getting better! It hasn't been two years again, after all.

But I digress. I'm very sorry it took so long, but I am very happy with this current version, and I have redone a lot of the storyline and I have almost all of it completely mapped out.

I'm also going to say I have some other stuff I'm working on, but I won't post it until I either finish this story or get a good rhythm going. And yes, I realize I have other stories to be writing now, and yes, I know that this one is not the most popular one of them, but this is what I feel like writing, and this is the only one (that I published) that has the storyline written out.

So, expect more of this, and I hope to get some oneshots out because I'm working on at least three and they require less planning and less writing, so it leaves more room open for this and other stuff.

Again, I am so very sorry for the wait, and I know this note was short and not exceedingly amusing but I'm on the bus going home right now and I'm starving.

I had something else important to say but I can't remember. Thanks, bus. And crappy memory. God.

Anyways, I don't even know where this is going anymore.

So, until next time, which will be sooner than two years.

ALSO, I just remembered what I had to say that was important. I am typing this, and pretty much everything else, on my iPhone, so forgive a lack of italics and bold and whatnot, and also forgive the formatting, which is bound to turn out to be strange. So just, let me know. I probably wrote this somewhere else, but you know. I have the memory of a potato.

Later, bros and hoes and not hoes, and that last part I was a it reluctant to put in because it kinda ruined the rhyme, but I didn't want to leave out the non-hoes.


End file.
